Page 2 of One Night Collision

The concrete and sidewalks give way to fields and grass, pastures full of horses and cattle. The tension in my neck and shoulders begins to ease the farther I get out of town. In another life, I'd be a fifth-generation farmer, but when tobacco ceased being a cash crop for Kentucky, we lost most of our land, and a good portion of our legacy. Today, our farm is modest. Barely enough for my mom and dad to survive, but big enough so that I can still keep my horse.

Slowing down, I turn on my blinker and head down the drive, kicking up dust behind me as I go. When I park and get out of the driver's side, my dad comes ambling out of the barn. "Hey." I give him a wave. "How's it going?"

"Can't complain. You here to ride Mustang? Been a few days."

"Yeah." I rake my fingers through my hair. "Been a couple of trying days. Can't wait to feel the wind, and not have to listen to anyone bitching."

"You would've been a great owner of this place if you'd chosen it, Damien."

I nod, knowing he's correct, but the truth is, I didn't want to work that hard. While I prefer to wear ratty jeans, worn T-shirts, and boots barely holding themselves together, I also have a taste for expensive things. It's the weird dichotomy that's always kept me wondering exactly who I am. "I know, but my heart isn't in it. Heart isn't into much these days."

He gives me a grin, face weathered with the passage of days spent out in the sun. "One day it will be, Damien. You'll meet a woman, settle down, and maybe then I can convince you to take this place over."

Walking to the barn to change my clothes, I grin back. "Keep dreaming, old man. I'm not cut out for it."

Hooking his thumbs in the loops of his jeans, he nods toward my truck. "Just like you weren't cut out for a truck? I remember when you swore up and down you'd have a BMW or a Mercedes. We can't change who we are, Damien. One day you'll realize just how much this place means to ya."

But today won't be that day.

Chapter

Two

Maggie

I double-check the address that Troy gave me. For a small-town lawyer, this is a pretty swanky office. Based on the engraved stone over the door, it used to be a bank. It’s held onto some of its Victorian charm though, despite the modern improvements. To say that the last thing I expected to do within my first month as a new business owner in Bellehaven was take legal action against my landlord is a huge-ass understatement. But every time I turn around, the guy is tacking on a fee, or trying to weasel out of paying for repairs that are structural and not just related to my business. He’s got three other tenants in that building, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna pay to replumb the whole place for all of us.

I get out of my parked van and hit the key fob to lock it. There’s nothing in it right now, but no point in tempting fate. Law offices attract criminals, and unlocked vehicles are an invitation.

Taking the two brick steps, I push open the heavy glass door and step into a well-decorated and very posh reception area. The black-and-white tile floors are original. I’d put money on it. Thereception desk probably is too. It’s old, mahogany, heavy as hell, and that kind of carving doesn’t exist in modern craftsmanship.

Behind the desk is a woman somewhere from forty-five to eighty. She’s had enough work done to make it impossible to tell, but it’s good work and everything about her screams high maintenance.

“Good morning. May I help you?”

“Yeah. I’m Maggie Sloan. Troy James spoke with your employer about seeing me this morning.”

She raises—barely—one perfectly microbladed eyebrow. “The landlord thing, right?”

I nod, sighing in relief. “Yeah. The landlord thing.”

“Just have a seat, sugar. Damien—Mr. Sizemore, that is—will be with you in just a minute. He’s on a conference call right now.”

Taking a seat on one of the brocade chairs that flanks a coffee bar bearing an espresso machine that likely costs more than my monthly rent, I try to bite back my general distaste for lawyers. They are a necessary evil. But after a particularly nasty divorce from my cheating ex who managed to still make me look like the bad guy, it’s a knee-jerk reaction.

After a couple of minutes, a heavy wooden door opens and an all-too-familiar man in a suit appears. “You!”

The lawyer, with his blue eyes and dimpled smile, just leans casually against the doorframe with all the cockiness of a man who feels like the world is literally at his feet. “What? No flowers today?”

I’m on my feet in an instant. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I’ll find someone else.”

I’m out the door and halfway back to my van before I hear footsteps running up behind me.

“Hold it! Hold on just a damn minute!”

“Nope. Not holding on for a minute. Not for a damn nanosecond,” I snap.

“Do you need help?”

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